


Stress Relief

by lbmisscharlie



Series: Short Skirts and Car Rides [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Fingerfucking, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, after hours stress relief, beware what your assistant knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, at the end of a long day of appointments and stress and pompous officials begging to be taken down a peg, it's nice to be with someone who understands.</p><p>Dealing with Buckingham Palace security is always exhausting for Anthea, and Kate's day included meeting Sherlock Holmes and being knocked unconscious by the CIA within a few minutes. It's time for a little release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stress Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=78209413#t78209413) prompt at the kinkmeme asking for Anthea/Kate. Shamelessly self-indulgent as I was pretty sure I was going to write some porn involving Irene's driver/assistant since that first clip with her was released.

The woman who slips into the chair beside her does so with a heavy sigh and an impatient gesture to the waiter. “Espresso, please, darling, and one of those little almond pastry things.” She flashes a smile that more than makes up for her entrance before leaning forward, elbows on the table, and sighing again.

Anthea raises one eyebrow and sets her phone aside. Kate’s hair shows signs of having been recently neatened and a bruise is forming at her temple, dark under her makeup. “Bad day, was it?”

“I met Sherlock Holmes today.”

Anthea bites her lip to keep from laughing. “Oh dear. You’ll need more than an espresso, I fear.” Kate glared at her pointedly, with exasperation. “What’d you think?”

“The acting. You didn’t tell me about the acting – why didn’t you tell me about the acting?” Anthea couldn’t help it now; she broke into proper giggles at Kate’s half irritated, half amused expression.

“What was he this time?”

“Vicar who’d been mugged. Punched by John Watson on that pretty little face, I’d wager.”

“Oh, bless.” Anthea sits back in her chair, as pleased as a mother at her child’s first primary school play. “How did you find John? I’m quite fond of him; he flirts with me mercilessly every time we meet.”

Kate smirks. “He didn’t flirt with me once.” She mock-pouts before smiling again. “Though his hands were quite gentle as he revived me.”

“Revived you?”

“Yes, didn’t I say? We had a visit from some Americans. One of them’s dead, Irene’s off doing god-knows-what, and last I saw Sherlock he was high as a kite and spouting gibberish about boomerangs.” She makes a show of inspecting her nails, theatrically casual. “I left as soon as the police were finished; it’s dreadfully dull in that house all alone.”

Anthea raises an eyebrow. “My pleasure, then.”

“Oh indeed.” Kate flashes her a look, lashes lowered and eyes dark. She takes her espresso like a shot, licking a drop off her lips before setting the demitasse down, pushing the saucer away. “Shall we?”

Anthea finishes her coffee, inclining her head toward the front of the café. “My driver’s just out front.”

“Oh, I’m bored of cars today. Let’s go to yours.” A flicker of amusement crosses Anthea’s face. “What? We were early to Irene’s appointment this morning.”

“Fine,” Anthea answers and it really is. She rather prefers the luxury of her own space, sometimes, especially with Kate – lets them step away from the workplace for a few short hours.

Both women stick to their phones on the drive – business waits for no woman, after all. Kate sends off an email and peers over Anthea’s shoulders. With a quirked grin, Anthea tilts her Blackberry away from the other woman’s eyes. Mycroft may well know and tolerate her extra-curricular liaisons, but only so long as they don’t actually pose any difficulties for Queen and country. Kate obligingly slides her eyes away, giving Anthea a nudge with her shoulder.

By the time they arrive to Anthea’s neat and discreet flat, rain has started up, an insistent drizzle that dampens their shoulders as they dash together to her front door.

Once inside, they shuck their clothes together, with little preamble, each other’s suits and stockings and lingerie familiar as their own – a shared uniform, a shared armour. They may have different relationships with their employers, but their roles demand a similar mask, require fluency in courtesy and manipulation. They are the confidantes and the go-betweens, the ones who know the end game but play blind.

Anthea teasingly walks backwards as she kicks off her shoes and unhooks her bra, dropping it to the floor. Kate follows obligingly, her own clothing falling in a trail behind her as they make their way to the sitting room. Anthea stops at the edge of the sofa, thighs pressed against the arm, and Kate steps into her space.

Their lips touch first, a ghost of space between their bodies as they kiss, the cool air forming gooseflesh. Anthea swipes her tongue across Kate’s lips and shivers as Kate trails one finger down her arm. Kate takes a step closer, leg insinuating itself between Anthea’s thighs, and, with one hand at the small of her back, pulls them together, leg pressed firmly against Anthea’s heat.

She grins against Kate’s mouth and rocks her hips, Kate’s hand at her back stroking, teasing. There’s pressure and give between them, a bit of controlled force, but they don’t play with power, don’t beg and order and flirt with the edges of pain, not together. Kate has Irene for that and Anthea Harry – though not often of late, as Harry’s recent abstinence seems to stretch to all areas of her life. Anthea’s thought about it with Irene, of course, ruminated on that confident voice, those clever hands, wondered how she’d respond to Irene, if she’d submit.

Of course, she’ll have to wait until all this business with the cameraphone is over to try – it’d be terribly unprofessional otherwise.

As if sensing her distraction, Kate nips at her lower lip. Dropping to her knees, Kate nudges Anthea’s legs apart, sliding her fingers between Anthea’s lips. She’s beginning to get wet, feeling a tingle of interest as Kate’s fingers spread her and she leans in close, breath warm on her clit. Anthea tilts her hips up but Kate moves with her, mouth pulling back as she grips Anthea’s thighs.

“Oh, get on with it,” Anthea growls and Kate pinches the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

“Patience,” she admonishes, and Anthea scoffs.

“I don’t like waiting.” Kate laughs, flicking her eyes up to glance at Anthea through her lashes.

“You don’t, do you? You tend to just take –” she swipes her tongue delicately over her upper lip. “– just take whatever it is you want.”

Anthea slips her hand through Kate’s hair, drawing it over the curve of her ear to twine the strands around her fingers. “Is that what you want me to do, then? Take what I like?” She pulls her head closer, until Kate’s lips tickle against the short hair just covering her cunt. Kate breathes out and Anthea shivers.

After a long pause, Kate shrugs a shoulder and murmurs against Anthea’s skin, “I’ll give you whatever you ask for.”

Anthea grins and loosens her grip. “Well then. D’you mind?”

“Not at all.” Kate ducks her head and draws her tongue up Anthea’s cunt, flicking the tip over her clit with a flourish. Anthea sighs happily as Kate moves in again, her tongue drawing soft circles. Her movements flutter between languid and clamorous, one moment a soft, teasing flick with the tip of her tongue and the next a punishing stroke. Anthea squirms under her mouth, enjoying the flux of her movements, tantalising and unpredictable.

Anthea curls her fingers into the arm of the sofa, rising up on her toes as she feels the heat build in her cunt. Kate follows, mouth warm and tongue firm against her clit, insistent and driving. “Oh, fuck, Kate, right, yes,” she gulps out, as the tension coils then explodes, warmth spreading through her body as she arches against Kate’s lips.

She lets out a deep, satisfied sigh as her muscles relax. Kate pulls away with a smirk, wiping her mouth against the back of her hand as she stands.

“Come here, damn you.” Anthea pulls her in for a deep, searching kiss, licking her own tangy taste out of Kate’s mouth.

While she’s still soft and boneless, Kate pushes against her shoulders, tumbling her onto the sofa. Sprawled against the cushions, Anthea quirks a smile as Kate steps around and straddles her hips, one knee tucked up by her side and the other leg braced against the floor. She grasps Anthea’s hand and pushes it between her legs; taking the hint, Anthea drags her fingers up through Kate’s wetness, circling her clit.

Kate closes her eyes, letting her head fall back as she drags her hands slowly up her body, over her hips and ribcage to palm her breasts. She holds their weight in her hands, thumbing over her nipples, mimicking the rhythm of Anthea’s fingers on her clit. She squirms a bit, wriggling her hips against Anthea’s fingers.

Rolling a nipple between her fingers, Kate drops the other hand behind her, between Anthea’s legs, and for a moment Anthea’s fingers stutter as Kate finds her clit unerringly. She recovers, though, and the two stroke in tandem, fingers frantic and blood pounding. Anthea can feel Kate swell under her, juices slick and viscous on her hand, and she tilts her hips up to meet Kate’s hand, her cunt open and wanting.

The sight of Kate curling above her, head thrown back, eyes screwed tight, biting her lip and pulling on one nipple, pitches her over the edge as much as the sensation in her cunt. Kate grinds down against her, demanding, and they both rub eagerly, hands fumbling and a bit out of sync as they reach climax together. Anthea feels Kate’s come on her stomach, slick and hot, and Kate’s thighs clench tight then relax around her hips.

Kate collapses onto her chest, letting her body go limp. She lays there for a moment, panting into Anthea’s hair, and Anthea lets her arm fall to one side. After a moment, Kate disengages, their bodies pulling apart stickily, and slides to the floor, where she stretches on the rug. Anthea giggles before a tug on her arm pulls her off the sofa to fall on the ground next to Kate.

Anthea arches her back, rolling out the tension in her vertebrae, before collapsing back onto the floor. Kate rolls onto her stomach and kisses Anthea’s shoulder, tongue darting across the sweat-dampened skin. Anthea smiles lazily in response. They lie there, together, Kate drawing circles on Anthea’s arm, the backs of Anthea’s knuckles skimming against Kate’s hip.

After long, lazy minutes, the sweat and come on Anthea’s body begins to cool; she feels a shiver pass over her, gooseflesh forming under Kate’s fingertips. “Shower?” she asks, and starts to stand without waiting for Kate’s answer.

Her muscles, pleasantly warmed from their recent activity, still hold a deep tension. It’s been a long day, after all, working with Buckingham’s security detail and organizing helicopters. Kate’s can’t have been much better – at least Anthea’s been conscious for hers. A nice hot shower, to clean and warm and relax, beckons.

She passes through the bedroom to get to the master bath, Kate following leisurely behind, and turns on the tap, hot as she can stand. Stepping under it, she bows her head and lets the water soak down to her scalp, dripping over her forehead and down the tip of her nose. Kate steps in behind her, sliding the door closed and pressing close to let the water flow over their joined bodies.

Kate rests her chin on Anthea’s shoulder as, arms entwined, they let the water sluice down their skin. Its insistent stream and punishing heat beat into their flesh, kneading their muscles into new pliancy. Anthea reaches for a bottle and, squeezing body wash into her palm, begins to lazily soap them up.

Her hands glide up over Kate’s hip and around to her arse, fingers teasingly moving over the full curve and up, lingering in the dimples at the hollow of her back. She traces vertebrae up, fingertips dancing over each nodule, and sweeps across one shoulder blade. She thinks of the delicate scent lingering in Kate’s skin, marking her, invisible evidence of their time together. She thinks of it filling Irene’s nose when next she touches Kate’s skin, when she presses her lips to the soft, tender parts of Kate’s body.

She backs Kate up to the wall, cool tile at her back and steam filling their lungs. The soap on her back makes her slide a little and they grin together, Anthea pressing up firm against her, holding her in place with her hip. She braces against the wall with one hand and slides the other between their bodies, down to where Kate is slick and open.

Kate smiles lazily at the slow, slick slide of fingertips against flesh, her body responsive in relaxed, unhurried way, the pleasure deep and warm rather than needy and insistent. Anthea circles her clit, mouthing kisses along her jawline, water hitting the small of her back and running down her thighs. Kate’s hair is dark auburn when wet and sticks to the side of her neck, mussed by Anthea’s nose as she tongues her pulse.

Anthea slides two fingers inside, palm nestled tight to her cunt and fingers reaching, stretching for her depths. She rocks into her, slow and steady, her flesh soft against sensitive fingertips. Kate pulls her close, one arm tight around her neck, and whispers, “Go on then, fuck me properly.”

With a grin against the muscle of Kate’s shoulder, Anthea does just that, thrusting into her body more firmly, using her thigh for leverage, ball of her palm rubbing hard against Kate’s clit with each push. Kate cants her hip and wraps one leg around Anthea’s thighs, pulling her closer and using her body for support. Anthea leans heavily against her, holding her up, their hips pressed so close that the back of her hand brushes her cunt as it moves inside Kate.

Kate shoves against her, hips rising off the wall, panting, mouth hot against Anthea’s wet shoulder. She murmurs, “Jesus, fuck, god,” the words drawn-out and muffled, benedictions blessing Anthea’s skin. Not quite pleading, but appreciative, her moans are nearly lost to the sound of the shower. Anthea can tell she’s getting close, can feel it in the tensing of her thigh and the flutter of her cunt, in muscles hot and pulsing around her hand, in wetness that has nothing to do with the shower.

She concentrates on her hand, then, on feeling the sensations of Kate around and against her, body demanding, begging, hoping, her moans half-formed words that emerge full of breath and want and need. She fucks her firmly, throws the weight of her body into each thrust and hopes her balance will hold, precariously anchored as she is with one hand grappling at the slick tile.

Kate bites down on her shoulder, and Anthea knows that move; it’s less to derive pleasure than to focus it, to bring all the warring thoughts and sensations down to a point so they may coalesce, build, and explode. And explode she does. Her climax shatters throughout her body and Anthea can feel it, feel the moment it all goes still, breath held and body taunt, before Kate collapses forward, hands scrambling for purchase and mouth open wordlessly against Anthea’s skin. Anthea fucks her through it, slowly but firmly, and shuffles her feet to keep her balance.

As Kate’s breathing slows, Anthea slips out, hand steady against Kate’s hip, holding her up as Kate’s leg slides down bonelessly, legs shaky and muscles weak. “Fuck,” Kate breaths, the word drawn out and luxurious as her eyes flutter open shakily, as if with effort. Anthea grins and manoeuvres her under the spray, washing away the last bit of body wash not already slaked off by their efforts. They stumble out of the shower together, laughing a bit, and wrap themselves up in plush towels.

Anthea goes to the kitchen and brings in a bottle of wine and two glasses; she tosses Kate her mobile with a grin and Kate rolls her eyes. Not in frustration, really, but at them, drawn together by their jobs officially at last, after all these years. Seated at the end of Anthea’s bed, towels wrapped loosely and hair still dripping wet, they both thumb through missed messages and fire off quick responses.

“You don’t think you could get Irene to call it off, do you?”

Kate scoffs. “Now that she’s met Sherlock? Chance’d be a fine thing.”

Anthea raises one eyebrow; Kate studiously ignores her in favour of scheduling an appointment with a minor Danish royal. “He’s not the endgame, though, really.” It’s not a question and Kate glances at her, sidelong. Anthea shrugs. “If what she has on that phone is what we think it is, she might be getting into something above her head.”

Kate considers her for a long moment. “Irene’s very good at keeping her head when she needs to.”

“And yourself?”

“I’m very good at keeping what Irene needs me to keep.” Anthea feels a brief wave of fondness at the matter-of-fact statement; it’s once again the two of them, the women behind the power, and Anthea knows that tone of voice. She should; she’s heard it in her own words once or twice, in moments of truth. She nods, an acknowledgment. Yes, they are good at doing what’s needed, aren’t they?

“Good,” she murmurs, and leans to kiss Kate’s shoulder. And it is: for now, it is needed, and it is good, and that’s what they do.


End file.
